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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25550926">Endless Circle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ldigo/pseuds/Ldigo'>Ldigo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Circle [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Non-Chronological, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,578</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25550926</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ldigo/pseuds/Ldigo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeremiah looks like an angel right now; debauched, yes, but still mostly innocent. As if he hasn’t somehow revived his deranged brother, abducting a man, destroying all means of communication between Gotham and the mainland via bombs designed by himself for this sole purpose, committing a severe fraud, two more terrorist attacks with multiple casualties and at least one direct murder that Jim knows of in the process.<br/>Jim has never wanted to pull the trigger quite as badly before.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Circle [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677820</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Endless Circle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please behold the long-overdue conclusion to my very first work here on AO3.<br/>Firstly, I wish to thank <strong>sososophiexoxo</strong> who motivated me to finally man up and finish this. Without you it would’ve most probably been left in disarrayed notes for ages.<br/>And secondly, I thank everyone who waited for so long and apologize for the delay. Love y’all :3</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>On other note, please keep in mind that this work is non-chronological. The beginning is Jerome’s perspective on what transpired at the end of the prequel, just because I couldn’t help but insert it, and after that we return a few hours back to the precinct. I hope you’ll find it enjoyable.</strong></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And here I thought he was <em>your</em> little plaything, dear brother of mine,” Miah’s voice is low, exuberant, almost breathless. <em>Radiant</em>, Jerome thinks, gazing at his twin’s lithe form, somehow still commandeering, god-like despite being manhandled and shoved into the wall, with something akin to worship.</p><p>At this moment their previous meaningless little quarrel is totally forgotten. He barely even registers what’s being said, unable to concentrate on just about anything other than the siren’s song of this voice, identical to his own and entirely different at the same time.</p><p>Jerome is mesmerized.</p><p>That’s why it takes him much longer than he’d prefer to finally grasp the unspoken truths behind simple syllables, but when he does…</p><p>
  <em>Is he really..? Can it be..?</em>
</p><p>He feels the air changing between them, shifting from violent to dangerous of wholly different kind. The atmosphere is denser now, charged with trepidation in face of the unknown. The possibility he desperately wants — <em>covets</em> for as long as he can remember — to explore.</p><p>The pressure is rapidly building in him, setting his whole body aflame from the inside out, as though his intestines are engulfed in hellfire, growing and consuming everything in its wake. This hunger is rawer and more intense than anything he’s ever experienced before. Better than drugs or unadulterated mayhem, more exhilarating than killing their whore of a mother, bringing down the axe time and time again until the handle slips, slick with blood.</p><p>He couldn’t possibly resist it even if he tried. He doesn’t.</p><p>The first touch of his lips against Jeremiah’s slightly more chopped ones (and isn’t that an unexpected reverse at its finest?) is overwhelming. The feeling unspooling within him is far more desperate and savage than he thought himself capable of.</p><p>Just shy of dying on the spot, he somehow manages to evaluate. It’s his last conscious thought, however, because in span of what probably amounts to half a second at most Miah’s lips move in response with a soft moan, and Jerome is completely <em>gone</em>.</p><p>Everything, <em>anything</em> besides the two of them ceases to exist in this moment of clarity. Their twin bond, now more awake than ever, vibrates with the same feelings from his brother’s side, intensifying his experience almost to the point of blacking out. His own arousal doubles, triples, until it’s so immense that it hurts. He rubs his aching, rigid cock against Miah’s, shivering uncontrollably in unison with his universe personified, both growling helplessly. They are out of breath, consciousness darkening dangerously around the edges, but tearing themselves apart even for a gulp of fresh air is unthinkable.</p><p>The poorly lit corridor around them simultaneously shrinks and expands, the world reduced to the space of their shared breath. Every single press of lips against lips is revelation in itself, <em>a prayer</em>.</p><p>And then Miah’s mouth opens invitingly, hungrily demanding <em>more</em>; the message perfectly conveyed in just the slightest curve of upper lip. Jerome is happy to oblige.</p><p>He invades the welcoming heat of his brother’s mouth eagerly, savagely, as though aiming to devour and being devoured in return.</p><p>“My god, Jeremiah,” he reverently exhales straight into the gingerly awaiting cavern, receiving a deliriously shaking intake of breath in return. Miah bites his lower lip with matching reverence, vigorously drinking in Jerome’s sharp hiss of surprised pain, not at all discernible from arousal.</p><p>Brush of Miah’s tongue against his own is epiphany, litany of completeness, fulfillment. It’s too much and not enough all at once. It’s everything he ever wanted, <em>needed</em> to feel whole and more. So natural, as though this is how they were always meant to be from the start.</p><p><em>Of course it is</em>, they share the thought.</p><p>Miah licks languidly along the roof of his mouth, leaving him reduced to raw, deep, agonized need, and they breath each other’s names wantonly, simultaneously, and he descends upon the pallor of his brother’s neck, ravenous, high on the sweetest ambrosia of moans, collar of angry reds and purples blossoming in his wake.</p><p>His soft bed clothes or Jeremiah’s lavishing, pristine ones are nothing more than an unfortunate obstacle now, and he tears apart the buttons of his brother’s designer trench, the collar of his crisp shirt, aching to feel more of his wonderful, picturesque skin, accentuated by beads of sweet and blood. He inhales deeply his twin’s scent — <em>strawberries</em>, even after all this time apart — in the crook of his neck, placing there a soft, reminiscing kiss.</p><p>“Chocolate,” Miah whispers back, reading his mind without effort, <em>just as before</em>. They linger like that, unmoving, for a while, all previous passion suddenly flooding away, as though a tide from a seashore. Nostalgia comes unbidden in its stead.</p><p>Jerome finds himself almost… content then, <em>happy</em> even; years of longing, of crushing love mixed with hate and contempt forgotten at once, vanishing without a trace. Whatever it is — an illusion his fevered or dying brain has come up with, or truly his second rebirth — he doesn’t want it to end.</p><p>Jeremiah’s uneven breathing somewhere near the top of his head slowly calms down, just as his own. They’ll definitely pick up where they left off at a later time, but for now there are more pressing matters to attend to. After all, they won’t get a chance to explore more sensual aspects of their bond if they are apprehended, will they? If Brucie’s somehow found Miah’s new hideaway, who’s to say that nobody else will be able to do just that?</p><p>Not to mention Jeremiah leaving his side in most inopportune moment and his troubled and ragged reappearance mere minutes ago. Something unpleasant must have transpired, there’s no other way.</p><p>As if answering his unspoken questions, there’s a sudden sound of commotion not far away from their spot. Jerome lifts his head to the sight of Miah’s wild, utterly deranged eyes staring into the distance. He composes himself for the inevitable, reluctantly shifting away from his brother, if just barely.</p><p>Jeremiah grabs his hand in jerking motion, seemingly attempting to flee in the opposite direction from intruders, but it’s too late. Jimbo with his ever-present sidekick and a dozen or so of extra officers come barging in from one of nondescript turns. There’s just too many of them, all heavily armed, and a few strides towards the relative safety seem too much of a distance.</p><p>They are effectively trapped.</p><p>Jerome feels as though he is eighteen all over again, being harshly interrogated in GCPD not long after he finally managed to rid himself of the whore’s oppressive presence. Just for his barely freed wings to be abruptly cut by the root, teared out even.</p><p>He hates himself for feeling this abysmal helplessness now, the only consolation is impeccable mask on his face. Jeremiah sports a mask of his own as well, Jerome notices from the corner of his eye.</p><p>Moreover, there’s something else in there, some singular determination, unnoticed by everyone barring Jerome himself. His little brother has a plan then.</p><p>Hope is such a flimsy, foreign concept, but he finds himself succumbing easily to new sensations these days.</p><p>
  <strong>JVJVJV</strong>
</p><p>“Oswald,” a tired voice calls, and he lifts his head from where he is crouched, trembling and warring with exhaustion, in the corner of GCPD’s medical room. It’s a far cry from his weeks-long prison, not even a proper coroner’s, but close enough to bring forth all sorts of unpleasant associations. Not that he’s been given any choice on the matter of his residence, but perhaps it’s actually better than enduring the wide birth he’d have received from cops in main workspace.</p><p>One look at his <em>associate’s</em> face tells him everything he needs to know.</p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me, Jim!?” Oswald exclaims, eagerly jumping at the chance to release some of his anxiety and frustration. “Surely even you aren’t so stupid as to give me up to that bloody madman! You do realize what he’d do to me, right? I don’t even know why I bothered coming here with your half-dead ex in the first place. You’d think I’d know better after all this time, but apparently not. <em>Of course</em> the great James Gordon would betray me at the earliest opportunity, <em>again</em>! Honestly, it’s long since gotten old.”</p><p>“You don’t understand!” Jim argues, as usual bending his so-called moral high ground however it suited him, all the while remaining completely ignorant of his own double standards. “He’s just literally blown up the City Hall to get his point across, for God’s sake, and holds another detonator. What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just let all those innocent people die.”</p><p>“Of course,” Oswald smiles sardonically. “One life weighs nothing against many, even if you cannot be sure that they are actually at stake at all.”</p><p>“I can’t risk it. I’m sorry, Oswald, but I just can’t.”</p><p>“Have you tried counting the bombs?” He tries, despite feeling mostly resigned to his fate. “You do know how many there were, don’t you? I believe deducting the number of bridges should be easy enough.”</p><p>“I haven’t thought of it,” Jim frowns.</p><p>Oswald sighs. “Naturally. It’s truly a wonder all these people keep relying on you.”</p><p>“Including yourself,” the cop points out — completely unnecessary, considering their circumstances. “You’re right, though. We haven’t even considered comparing the numbers. Come to think of it, it might have been exactly Valeska’s intention; to throw us off with the first explosion in order to conceal that there wouldn’t be a second.”</p><p>With that said, Jim abruptly turns around, presumably to verify this hypothesis, leaving Oswald on a tumultuous cliffhanger. God, he’s never been the type to sit idly by whilst others make an important decision behind closed doors. He doesn’t like the feeling, to put it lightly.</p><p>When his ever unreliable contact from GCPD returns, he offers him but a brittle smile. “Well, do I get to revise my will at least? I’d like to bequeath a few items elsewhere, if it’s all the same to you.”</p><p>“It won’t be necessary,” Jim assures, mildly apologetic. “We’ve concluded that Valeska shouldn’t have any bombs left by now.”</p><p>“Oh? That’s wonderful,” he says flatly, squashing the pang of hurt at his <em>friend’s</em> almost dismissal before it could manifest on his face. “Good to hear I’ll live another day.”</p><p>Jim just nods, clearly distracted, and that’s the end of it. Oswald cannot even muster up the willpower to lament his abysmal skills in choosing the right sort of friends.</p><p>
  <strong>JVJVJV</strong>
</p><p>Jim watches Jeremiah Valeska from behind a convenient jut on the barricade. The terrorist remains on exactly the same spot that he occupied during their bargaining, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.</p><p>Well, he sure doesn’t, if he is as arrogant and over-confident as his actions suggest.</p><p>“Bring him in, he’s bluffing about the second bomb,” Jim orders quietly. “And do be careful. He has to be lucid enough to face proper interrogation immediately upon capture. Time is of the essence.”</p><p>However, as soon as the troops close in on the madman Jim desperately wishes to rewind time and hand the Penguin over, dubious morality of such concession be damned.</p><p>Jeremiah smiles, giddy with obvious delight. “You know, I anticipated that one of you simpletons might remember basic maths and count my bombs despite the distraction presented in form of blown up City Hall,” he giggles. “Looks like you’ve completely forgotten about the prototype from my bunker, though.”</p><p>The policemen stop dead in their tracks, glancing uncertainly at Jim’s hiding spot. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know what to do with this new information either.</p><p>Have they really miscalculated? And more importantly, can he risk it?</p><p>He is saved from the necessity of choosing between a rock and a hard place right away (and living with the consequences for the rest of his life), because a cell phone starts ringing, too loud and cheerful for this gloomy situation he’s somehow found himself in. It’s Jeremiah’s.</p><p>“Yes, my dear?” The psychopath answers, irritation apparent on his face. There’s a pause, and then Valeska visibly lights up from the inside and ends the call, tossing his phone back in the front pocket of his ostentatious trench-coat.</p><p>“Ah well, I’m afraid I must be going. Places to be, lives to ruin, you understand,” the madman exclaims mock-apologetically, an exuberant flush blossoming his cheeks. “You may keep the useless piece of traitorous scum for now, if you want. I’ll send Brucie your regards.”</p><p>Faster than anyone could possibly react, Jeremiah presses the button on the detonator and throws down something shiny with his other hand. The object releases a heavy cloud of smoke that rapidly engulfs the street below, shielding the perpetrator from view and prompting violent coughs from the surrounding officers.</p><p>A tall building not far from the barricade — longe since evacuated, thankfully — collapses, crashing down several smaller ones and blocking a few streets in the process.</p><p>By the time the smoke disintegrates Jeremiah, of course, is gone. Jim’s people are screaming and trying to gauge their own eyes out. Everything is an absolute mess, and he has no bloody idea where to begin to fix it.</p><p>In fact, Jim wants nothing more than to throttle Oswald fucking Cobblepot to death, and the only thing that stops him is some last thread of sanity screaming that this disaster has likely been planned all along, with or without him timely giving in to outrageous demand. A flawless escape route, all things considered.</p><p>He arranges for medical attention being given to the injured troops, than assembles a team of trustworthy officers and sends for Oswald. Storm of the mad engineer’s new bunker will be their only saving grace, he knows.</p><p>Besides, the fucker lied about Bruce, who is in imminent danger right now, all alone against a psychopath and his proxy — Ecco, more than likely. That woman’s devotion to her employer has always seemed astounding.</p><p>He wishes he heeded Jerome’s warning when it still mattered. He wishes everything didn’t look so much clearer in retrospect, but it does. Far more often than he’d prefer.</p><p>It turns out, the blocked streets make reaching their destination significantly harder — a further proof that it was Jeremiah’s intention from the start, that it <em>isn’t Jim’s fault</em>. The building would have collapsed regardless.</p><p>He doesn’t feel as reassured as he hoped.</p><p>Crossing the deserted, desolated streets of previously lively Gotham resembles a state of limbo, Jim muses. All he sees in the rear-view mirror is dirty shades of gray, lifeless and empty. Perfectly fitting in a bittersweet way, considering how he feels on the inside.</p><p>He cannot completely shake off this not quite trance even when they reach the muddy alley which conceals the entrance to the bunker, according to Oswald. A high-tech camera, too pristine for its surroundings, backs up the Penguin’s claim.</p><p>The door is located and broken into in a matter of minutes, revealing an unlit corridor with several visible branches behind.</p><p>With a weary sigh Jim dons his helmet and a pair of infrared glasses. He has a bad feeling about this.</p><p>
  <strong>JVJVJV</strong>
</p><p>They advance swiftly and stealthily, prepared to shoot at every corner. Not that they’ve encountered anything but progressively rundown walls and turns so far. Luckily, they hear some commotion nearby after barely a hundred meters.</p><p>“What’s that?” Someone whispers, and the indistinguishable sounds immediately halt. <em>There goes their element of surprise</em>, Jim thinks bitterly.</p><p>All stealth forgotten, the team quickly moves in the general direction of whatever it was. Bruce or Valeska, hopefully.</p><p>The sight that greets them around the corner is one that Jim wouldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams (nightmares).</p><p>Jeremiah Valeska is almost pinned to a wall by someone who can only be Jerome, considering the man’s similar built and a mop of ginger locks. Bruce, bloody and beaten but definitely <em>still alive</em>, is hovering nearby, and Jim makes an aborted movement towards his trembling form, but steels himself. Not one but <em>two</em> bloody psychopaths are of more pressing concern right now, however it pains him to leave the boy’s injuries unseen to for a moment longer.</p><p>He focuses the entirety of his attention on the Valeska twins.</p><p>Right now, Jeremiah looks the very picture of debauched innocence; plush lips swollen and kiss-bitten, flush of color on the sweep of his cheekbones, striking crystalline eyes dark and half-closed in the remnants of decadent pleasure, breath coming in pants and groans, clothes disheveled. Still somewhat pure, somehow, as if he hasn’t somehow revived his deranged brother, abducting a man, destroying all means of communication between Gotham and the mainland via bombs designed by himself for this sole purpose, committing a severe fraud, two more terrorist attacks with multiple casualties and at least one direct murder that Jim knows of in the process.</p><p>He looks at the crowd of police officers for several moments, which is slightly unnerving, and then throws his head back and just <em>laughs</em>. Not long after Jerome joins in, sinister and joyous at the same time; two similar voices sound in perfect unison.</p><p>Someone swears in the background; Jim doesn’t register whom the choice words belong to. He’s too busy trying to figure out what to do now, how to apprehend the criminals without risking Bruce’s life.</p><p>And then the first shot from one of his apparently frayed up colleagues comes.</p><p>All hell breaks loose.</p><p>They’re running, and screaming, and everything is a blur of gunpowder and blood and for some reason gasoline. When the ruckus eventually dies down, there’s mess and gore everywhere and no sign of twins at all. A handful of his comrades, injured or worse, lay haphazardly on the concrete. Bruce, thankfully, is not among them.</p><p>Ecco is sprawled there too, bleeding sluggishly, her breaths labor. One glance is enough to confirm she won’t remain alive for long, paramedics or no paramedics.</p><p>He attempts, of course, to persuade her to share any details on where the duo might be heading, but to no avail. Even at the brink of her own demise, brushed off and abandoned in the middle of this devastation, the woman remains stubbornly loyal, however misplaced her feelings are. Jim could’ve respected it, were their circumstances any different.</p><p>As it is, however, he presses hard onto one of her wounds, inwardly wincing at his actions. Despite the obvious pain, showed in creases on her forehead and tightly clenched jaw, Ecco just smiles, eerily reminiscent of both her masters, and passes away without a single word.</p><p>“Damn it!” Jim snarls, hitting his fist hard on the floor. Everything, <em>fucking everything</em> that could have gone wrong did just that, and now the police’s position is more... precarious than ever, to say the least.</p><p>Thorough examination of the place reveals no further leads, discounting Nygma, expertly patched up and attached to an IV drip in one of the bunker’s countless rooms. And a bloody generator in perfect working condition in another — at least something good came out of all of this, Jim supposes, relieved that the electricity problem is resolved. Nevertheless, he dreads the investigation inevitably turning cold.</p><p>It turns out, he didn’t have to.</p><p>A call comes almost at the end of his night shift several weeks later, not long after they’ve finally reestablished the connection with the mainland. He arrives at the scene with Harvey and a SWAT unit in tow, only to witness the glory aftermath of carnage. And the two identical lunatics, of course, right in the middle of it all.</p><p>They appear <em>fucking</em>, for heavens’ sake, amidst all the blood and gore and severed limbs. So immersed in their unholy act, in fact, that none appears to be the wiser of a whole assembly of GCPD officers, who in turn just stay frozen, uncomprehending, allowing the pair to finish undisturbed, with each other’s names on their lips. And then everything is moving, synchronized in some sort of bizarre sophisticated rhythm. <em>Fitting</em>, Jim thinks.</p><p>They offer little to no resistance while being handcuffed and forcibly dragged away and towards the awaiting cars, laughing deliriously, both completely unhinged. Later there are even drug tests made, just to be sure. Both Valeska brothers come out clean, of course.</p><p>They are shipped off to Arkham without further ado, and it’s only two weeks later that Jim realizes that the whole unexpected capture must have been nothing more than a simple ruse. You’d think he should have known better by then, but apparently not.</p><p>Of course damned Valeskas couldn’t just stay put where they undoubtedly belong for any decent amount of time. They escape soon after the final trial, leaving behind a row of bodies with various injuries, most of them deadly, and picking up Jonathan Crane, who was apprehended mere days before, along the way. The image not unlike the one from underground bunker all those weeks ago ingrains itself into Jim’s eyes for the rest of his life, coming to the forefront of his mind at each and every crime scene that’s attributed to these two in the years to come.</p><p>The Dark Knight rises to protect Gotham from relentless assault of two madmen and lesser villains, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. Valeskas are in and off Arkham all the time, but no amount of new security measures put in place is enough to contain them for long, even if both happen to be captured at once, thus ruling out the very possibility of a break-in.</p><p>Jim never sleeps well for years on end.</p>
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